


and ignore those big warning signs

by elsaclack



Series: you can't choose what stays and what fades away [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, F/M, Gen, Suspense, just throwing that out there now, no one dies, suspense with a happy ending, that's not even a tag but w/e
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9335732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: “Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him. Please, Charles, I’ll hold them off for as long as I can, just - just go!”The last words Amy Santiago speaks before waking up alone in a hospital room, handcuffed to her bed.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s five-fifteen in the morning. 

At least, that’s what the digital clock mounted to the wall at the foot of her bed is telling her.

Amy stares at it, willing the numbers to come alive and answer the dozens of questions swirling in her foggy brain. Those blinking red taunts were the first things her gaze landed on upon lurching back to consciousness just a few minutes before, alone, lying in what appears to be an empty hospital bed. Dull pain radiates up her left leg, from ankle to knee; a thick cast keeps her from experimentally rolling her left foot. 

And two pairs of handcuffs keep her from yanking the IV drip from the inside of her elbow. 

( _“I’ll hold them off for as long as I can, just - just_ go _!”_ ) 

There’s a window to her right, and she’s pretty sure she’s up on a considerably high floor - all she can see is the inky color of the early morning sky and the occasional flash of lightning. Thunder rumbles somewhere off in the distance, echoed in kind by the hunger rolling through her gut. 

She can’t be positive of the exact count, but she hasn’t eaten in at least three days.

The numbers tick upward slowly, measuring her mounting desperation for - she’s not really sure what, freedom, food, answers - but she’s left alone to take stock of every inch of sore muscle currently lining her entire body. There’s really no way of knowing for sure without a mirror, but she’s pretty sure there’s a scabbed over gash above her left eye and some pretty heavy bruising to her shoulder on the same side (at best, considering her muscles twinge and burn every time she tries to shift). Her left ankle is definitely broken, which is pretty much what she suspected. 

She did jump two stories off of a fire escape, after all. 

Fear wells up inside her, stirring up the deepest dredges of panic up from the tips of her fingers to manifest in her chest, but she breathes through it. The handcuffs rattle loudly against the side guards of her bed, keeping time with her trembling hands, which she quickly clenches into fists against the mattress. It won’t due to panic now. 

Not when she hasn’t even laid eyes on the threat, yet. 

Her mind shifts to the last time she was conscious, trying to recall as many details as possible from those last few seconds. She’d _heard_ the tell-tale crack of bone more than she actually felt it on impact, and had crumpled immediately. John was yelling somewhere down near the mouth of the alley, and Daisy’s car engine was revving, but she couldn’t move. The air was knocked out of her lungs, the pain all-encompassing and paralyzing. The leather satchel full of rattling pills and vaccines had landed some two feet to her left; it blended in so perfectly with the darkness surrounding them, looking more like an irregular lump in the concrete than the ticket to saving Jake’s life.

“ _Amy_!” Charles was suddenly there, face inches from hers, pale and beaded with sweat. She remembered his hands pulling her upright just as the swell of hissing moans faded in from above them. 

“N-no, _no_ -” She’d shoved him away, ignoring the pain that flared up upon making impact with the unyielding concrete once again. “The meds - get the _meds_ -” 

Charles leaned forward, face illuminated in the moonlight. She’d never seen him look at her like that before - like the embodiment of pained indecision. The internal war was practically written across his face - save Amy’s life, or grab the medication that will save Jake’s life? 

She’d blinked then, and behind her closed eyelids she pictured Jake the way he was just hours before - pale and lifeless, skin like ice to the touch despite the layers of blankets tucked around him, tenuously balancing on that thin edge between life and death. She pictured Karen emerging from his bedroom, her surgical mask soaked with the tears that were still pouring down her face. She felt that overwhelming despair thick in the very air of the precinct, the feeling of suffocation, the feeling of drowning. 

One month, Karen had said. Unless he got the medication he needed - his mother had given him one month to live before his organs shut down and the infection took him from the world. 

The Nine-Nine would move on without her - they’d done it before - but _everything_ would come to a grinding halt without Jake. 

“ _Charles_!” She roared, her voice hoarse and crackling from the force. “ _Take it to him_!”

Shuffling footsteps spilled out on the metal fire escape above, but Charles’ stare remained fixated on her. 

“Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him. _Please_ , Charles,” tears had sprung up in his eyes. “I’ll hold them off for as long as I can,” she’d panted, “just - just _go_!” 

“I’m so sorry, Amy,” he whispered. He panted twice more - in quick succession - before twisting backwards, snatching the leather satchel, and taking off at a sprint toward the end of the alley. 

It’s only now, in the relatively calm boundaries of her shoebox hospital room, that she realizes she doesn’t know if Charles made it to the end of the alley. Because the next moments are in pieces - heavy bodies hitting the ground as the undead spilled over the railing above, broken glass piercing the undersides of her arms as she crawled on her belly away from the rapidly-growing pile of bodies, the edges of her vision going dark just as a pair of hands clamped down on her shoulders, blackness. 

And then - the damn clock. 

Which now reads 6:02 AM. 

At the sound of faint footsteps approaching from the other side of the closed door ten minutes later, Amy tenses on instinct. Her body screams in protest but it doesn’t stop her from trying to lift up off the mattress in preparation. 

The footsteps grow louder and louder, and then quieter again. Whoever it was bypassed Amy’s room altogether. 

Which brings Amy to a startling realization - someone living and breathing put her here, in this bed.

It’s…well, it’s embarrassing just how long it’s taken her to get there. It’s something her self-proclaimed intellectual mind should have noticed straight away, within seconds of regaining consciousness. She curses herself quietly. 

The only reason they had even come to the hospital was because they thought it was abandoned. It looked to be so by all appearances - as the suspected ground zero of this whole damn apocalypse should be - but apparently, they were wrong. Amy finds herself wishing the undead that had dropped from the sky would have been her end, that she would have died there in the alley in the pinnacle of sacrifice rather than live to face whatever horror is pacing up and down the hallway just beyond her door. 

“Please, Charles,” she whispers, eyes closed and chin tilted up toward the ceiling, “ _please_ don’t be too late. Please, please, _please_ …” 

She keeps up her whispered prayer until the sky is a lovely lilac color, the clock is blinking 7:43 AM, and the footsteps pacing outside stop at her door. 

The doorknob rattles ominously just long enough for Amy to sit up a little straighter and steel herself with one deep breath - but when the door swings open, all the air hisses out of her at once. 

It’s a slight woman who enters, thin and pale, clutching a laundry basket half-full of stained towels. The woman stops short upon realizing that Amy is awake and staring, eyes wide even as her dark, wildly curly hair falls into her face. 

“I didn’t - you’re not supposed to be awake yet -”

“Where am I?” Amy demands, trying not to wince at the gravel in her voice. 

The woman takes a step back, her mouth open, hesitation written clearly across her features. “I’m not allowed to talk to you -” 

“Diana?” A commanding voice calls sharply from the hallway. The woman freezes, snapping to attention, and the fear in her ramrod-straight posture makes the back of Amy’s neck prickle. Another woman marches inside, a stern kind of curiousness in her face. This woman’s blonde hair is pulled back in a sleek bun that sits low on her head, almost to the nape of her neck. Her white lab coat sweeps out behind her, and in the brief moment Amy can see her profile, she spots a ring weighed heavy with dozens of keys clipped to the woman’s belt loop. Amy squirms automatically - this woman’s authority is a tangible thing, rolling off of her in waves. “What are you doing in here?” 

“Y-you told me to get the laundry, so I - I was doing my rounds -” 

“I thought I made myself abundantly clear,” the woman says, danger creeping into her words. “No one is allowed in this room - room four-eleven - except me and Dale. Do you remember hearing me say that this morning before your rounds started?” 

Diana’s lower lip is quivering. “I do now,” she says, quiet and resigned. 

“Good. You’ll do well to remember it from now on. You can see yourself out.” Diana’s head drops in misery and shame, and as she shuffles toward the door, the second woman turns to face Amy.

“My name is Amy Santiago, I’m a detective with the ninety-ninth precinct in Brooklyn, where the _hell_ am I and _who are you_?” Amy all but shouts before the second woman can speak. 

Diana freezes in the doorway, her head snapped back to stare at Amy, but the other woman (who is now leaning forward against the footboard of Amy’s bed, a calm smirk teasing the severe angles of her face upward) appears unperturbed. She does seem to notice Diana’s lingering presence a second later, though; she shoots her a scathing grin that sends Diana scurrying back out into the hall, Amy’s door slamming shut behind her. 

“Welcome. I apologize for the delay in seeing you. Have you been awake long?” 

“I’m not answering any questions until you answer mine.” Amy spits through clenched teeth. 

The woman nods, and slowly makes her way to the empty chair in the corner of the room near the window. She drags the chair forward, to the right side of Amy’s bed. Amy tries to recoil as the woman sits down, but she’s held mostly in place by the handcuffs. 

“My name is Doctor Breslin. You’re in Brooklyn Methodist Hospital, recovering from a broken ankle and a grade-two concussion.” She seems patient enough, but Amy senses the irritated undercurrent lurking just below the surface. “Is it my turn to ask questions now?” 

Amy clenches her jaw. 

“Miss Santiago - it was Santiago, right? - would you please care to explain to me why you and your friend took things that don’t belong to you?”

Her heart skips a beat. Breslin is still smiling pleasantly, but Amy’s skin feels like it’s crawling beneath her gaze. “W-we didn’t - we thought this place was abandoned -” 

“Be that as it may, you still _broke_ into _private property_ and _stole_. Which, if I remember correctly, is illegal. Or do you not learn the laws in detective school?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, we - we needed the medication - our friend was _dying_ , we were desperate -” 

“That is truly unfortunate.” Breslin interrupts. “What is _more_ unfortunate is that you could have just brought your dying friend here. We would have treated them and nursed them back to health and sent you all on your way. But because you decided to go about this using alternative means,” Breslin says as she stands, “I’m going to be forced to press charges.” 

“Press - press charges?” Amy repeats. Breslin nods, pacing slowly back toward the end of the bed, and Amy can’t help herself - she scoffs. “Look, I don’t know when the last time you left this hospital was, but it’s complete anarchy out there - you can’t press charges, because there aren’t any charges to _press_.” 

“Yes. Well. Be that as it may. Your friend managed to escape before my guards could catch up to him - which leaves me with only one choice. The medication you stole is going to save a life. All I ask is for the same in return.” 

Amy blinks, trying to put the pieces together.

“A life for a life, Miss Santiago. Your friend will get the medication they need without hearing a single word from me or my guards - so long as you agree to stay here and work for the hospital until your debt is paid.” 

Her jaw drops. “You can’t be _serious_ -” 

“Oh, but I am. I am deathly serious. And if you refuse - well, let’s just say you won’t like what happens to you if you refuse me.” Breslin flashes her a bright smile, her perfectly white teeth bared, before she turns and starts toward the door. “Don’t make any rash decisions, dear. Think it over for a few hours. I’ll be back for your answer later today.” 

Amy stares after her long after the door snaps shut behind her. Panic is starting to set in, the claustrophobia summoning the sparse walls ever-closer, compressing her lungs and her throat until she’s forced to tilt her head back and stare at the ceiling. This can’t be happening. This can’t be _happening_. 

It’s five minutes into her wallowing before her head snaps up, the world roaring into focus all at once. Charles got away. He got back to John and Daisy, and they got away. Which means that they got the medication back to the precinct, back to _Jake_. 

_Jake is going to live_. 

Relief floods her system, powerful and heady, momentarily wiping all the fear and anxiety from the last few minutes away. _As long as Jake’s okay, I’ll be okay_ , she’d told herself a dozen times before leaving the precinct for this mission. And now that she knows he is, the urgency has drained from her system.

She can figure a way out of here on her own, just as soon as she’s able to walk. 

About twenty minutes pass before the door opens again. A young man who looks to be in his mid-twenties shuffles inside, clutching a tray bearing a bowl full of sloshing tomato soup and a glass of water. There are straws bobbing in each of them. 

“You must be Dale,” Amy tries. He glances at her briefly before returning his gaze to the tray on her side table. “You guys seriously won’t even give me solid food to eat?” 

“You’re a high-risk patient.” He tells her distractedly. “Can’t let you do something rash.” 

“Like what? _Eat_?” 

He kneels beside the bed and then a mechanical whir fills the room. The head of her bed begins rising, lifting her torso up so that she’s in more of a seated position than before. 

“High enough for you?” He asks, his head popping up at the side of the bed. 

“Perfect.” Amy grumbles. 

He rolls the side table closer, so that the flat surface is hovering over her lap. The tabletop is high enough that all she has to do is duck her head to catch the soup straw, and once it’s in her mouth all of her irritation slips away, giving way instead to greedy hunger.

She’s not sure exactly when he left - all she knows is that one second he was watching her slurp down scalding soup, and the next, she was alone with an empty bowl. Her stomach is still rumbling, but it’s not quite as distracting as it was before. 

She’s alone for two more hours before quick, quiet footsteps scurry up to her closed door. Amy tenses, pulling once again on her handcuffs as the doorknob slowly turns. 

Diana darts inside and quickly closes the door behind her. There’s something about her stance - feet spread, hands flat on the door, chest rising and falling rapidly - that makes Amy squirm on the bed in discomfort. If Breslin’s authority was tangible, Diana’s anxiety is a fifty-pound weight slamming into Amy’s chest. 

“What’s going on?” Amy asks. Diana darts to her bedside, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her fingers twisting together nervously before her. 

“You said - earlier, you said you’re a detective. Is that true?” 

Amy furrows her brow. “Yeah?” 

“And - and you’re really with the Nine-Nine?” 

Amy nods. 

Diana gasps. “Do you know my sister?” She chokes, her voice an airy hiss.

“Um - maybe? What’s your sister’s name?” 

“Rosa. Rosa Diaz. Do you know her?”

It’s like the air has been sucked right out of her lungs. Amy nods, dumbfounded, unable to form any words even as Diana seizes her right hand and squeezes it. 

“Is she - is she alive?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s alive. She’s at the precinct right now, are you - you’re really her other sister?” 

“I am, I - wait, wait, _other_ sister? _You know Stephanie_?” 

“Stephanie and her kids are at the precinct, too -” 

Diana releases a sound, a low sob, that brings Amy up short. “I didn’t know,” she whispers. “I had no idea, I thought - I just assumed -” 

Amy squeezes Diana’s hand. “I think they did the same thing,” she says softly. “But yes, they’re both alive. They’re at the Nine-Nine with the rest of our group - Diana, please, I have to get back to them -” 

“I heard you through the door,” Diana says, eyes glossy with unshed tears. “The person you stole the medicine for - you’re in love with them, aren’t you?” 

Amy releases a shuddering breath. “Yes. I - yes. He was really sick - he was gonna die - and I couldn’t, I couldn’t just…I had to do _something_. I had no idea anyone was even still alive in this place, I never would have even _dreamed_ of -” 

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me,” Diana interrupts quietly. “Believe me, I get it. I wasn’t always trapped in this place, after all.”

“Trapped?” Amy repeats in a whisper. 

Diana grimaces. “Yeah. People have tried to escape before, but - if security doesn’t catch you, the zacks do.” 

“Zacks?” 

“It’s what we call them. Nobody likes to say - well,” Diana looks away, uncomfortable, and Amy squeezes her hand. “What I’m saying is…nobody makes it out of here without Doctor Breslin’s permission.” 

“Diana, your sisters are less than thirty miles from here. Your nieces and your nephew are _so close_. You don’t even want to _try_?” 

She shakes her head slowly. “You misunderstood me,” Diana says. “Nobody makes it out of here _alone_ without Doctor Breslin’s permission.” 

Understanding washes over Amy all at once. 

“There’s a man down in the kitchens - Ernesto - who drives a big delivery truck out once a week to dump all the old food containers on the edge of town. He’s my friend, and I know he’ll help us get out if I ask him.” 

“When’s his next drive?” Amy asks excitedly, leaning forward in the bed before the cuffs yank her back. 

“Whoa, wait,” Diana’s hand lands firmly on Amy’s shoulder, pushing her further down into the mattress. “You’re in no shape to travel right now.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and _lounge around_ -” 

“Not lounging, _healing_. Besides, you’ve been out there, you know how to fight those things off, but I - I’ve been in here for _months_. I couldn’t defend _myself_ , let alone _both_ of us.”

Amy releases a strangled noise. “Okay, okay, _fine_. How long do I have to stay here?” 

“Well typically, when the bones are broken as cleanly as yours were - it takes six to eight weeks before the bones are set enough for you to graduate to a walking cast.” 

“Six to eight _weeks_?” 

“Unfortunately,” Diana says, nodding grimly. “So - so you’ll have to lie.” 

“What?” 

“When Doctor Breslin asks you again before dinner, you have to tell her that you’re willing to stay. It’s the only way to get these handcuffs off, this _cast_ off, and the walking boot _on_. If she trusts you, it’ll make getting out of here that much easier.” 

Amy splutters, trying to come up with a convincing argument and failing miserably. “I _hate_ this part of the plan,” she finally hisses. 

Diana grimaces sympathetically, patting Amy’s right knee consolingly. “I know. But it’s the only way you can get out of this room without being handcuffed to something.” 

She leaves a few minutes later, whispering a promise to sneak a few dinner rolls back later in the evening. 

Hours later, when Breslin comes sweeping into the room, Amy’s ready. She sits up a little more in the bed, eyeing the jingling keys on Breslin’s hip before forcing herself to meet Breslin’s gaze.

“First of all, how are you feeling? Any pain?” 

“None,” Amy lies. Truthfully her ankle is positively throbbing, but the idea of being even remotely drugged in her current position is enough to make her grit her teeth through her smile. 

“That’s good! Better than I would have expected. Though you _have_ been unconscious for two days.” Amy’s heart skips a beat at _that_ little revelation, but she manages to maintain a steady smile. “Now, onto more pressing matters - have you given my little ultimatum some thought?” 

“I have.” 

“And?” 

“And -” Amy pauses and takes a deep breath. Somewhere out in Brooklyn, Jake has the medicine he needs. He might already be well enough to open his eyes again, to roll his head weakly to one side and gently squeeze Karen’s hand clasped around his. She exhales, blinks the image away, and focuses on the woman in front of her. “And I want to stay.” 

Breslin’s face seems to light up in a genuine smile. “That’s excellent news,” she says, stepping forward as she reaches for the keys at her hip. “I’m so glad you saw reason, Miss Santiago.” 

Amy forces herself to keep smiling as the handcuffs around her right wrist fall away. “I’m looking forward to all the good I’ll be able to accomplish here,” she says as Breslin rounds the foot of the bed and reaches for her left wrist.

“And we’re thrilled to see what you’re going to do for us,” Breslin says, and Amy could swear there’s a genuine edge of earnestness to the doctor’s voice. Amy draws her wrists in toward her chest, wincing at her twinging left shoulder. “Dale will be along in a few minutes with dinner,” Breslin says cheerfully as she tucks both sets of cuffs into her white coat pocket. “If you need anything, just hit the call nurse button on the left side of your bed, and someone will come running.” 

“Thank you,” Amy breathes, rubbing her raw wrists gently. 

“Oh, and Miss Santiago?” Breslin calls from the door. Amy freezes, breath caught in her throat, until Breslin smiles. “Welcome to Brooklyn Methodist Hospital.”


	2. Chapter 2

They cut the hard cast off six weeks later - and in the days that pass between waking up in that bed and taking her first unsteady step forward in her walking boot, Amy learns several things.

The first (and possibly most disturbing) thing is that Diana could not possibly be any more different than her older sister. For all of Rosa’s grit and hard lines, Diana has timidity and gentleness in spades. She’s quiet, mousy, and Amy only has to wonder why she didn’t notice the family resemblance for the first two days. Were it not for her last name and tell-tale wild curls, Amy would have never guessed in a million years that Rosa and Diana grew up in the same house together. 

(So it’s only _really_ disturbing to Amy.)

Diana has been in the hospital for well over a year now. She came just a few months into the apocalypse, desperately seeking medical attention on behalf of her ailing neighbor. He died within two weeks of admittance, and Diana quickly found herself forced into service for the hospital in order to pay for the expenses. 

The second thing is that the hospital is intentionally set up to appear to be abandoned to the uneducated outsider. Patient rooms that line the outsides are never allowed to have lights on - lights are reserved for the interior cafeteria and Breslin’s office. Flashlights dangle from the belt loops of every other hospital employee; Amy gets hers atop a neatly folded set of scrubs two weeks after she wakes up. Additionally, Breslin had intentionally let the undead - the _zacks_ \- infiltrate the whole first and second floors, just to further discourage any curious passers-by from ducking inside.

The third thing is that Breslin, along with her tiny brigade of security officers, rules the hospital with an iron fist. She’s struck a deep-seated fear into the hearts of patients and employees alike; Amy can’t be sure, but she’s fairly certain Breslin has locked live humans in the stairwells, leaving them to fend for themselves amidst what is essentially a minefield of the undead as a form of punishment. There’s even a rumor that they once threw someone down an empty elevator shaft for sneaking seconds at some meals. 

The fourth (and probably most inconsequential) thing is that Ernesto is hopelessly in love with Diana, and Diana is absolutely oblivious to it. Amy can’t really blame Diana for not noticing - the girl is too busy jumping at the slightest noise to notice the way Ernesto looks at her - but it still drives her just a little bit insane. 

(Mostly because it’s so painfully similar to the way Jake looks at _her_ \- but she’ll never admit that to anyone.) 

Ernesto has kind eyes and a wide grin and a nervous habit of running his fingers through his short, dark hair. Amy gets the feeling that at some point, his hair was longer; he always gets this brief look of surprise every time he gets to the ends of the strands. 

Ernesto had agreed to help them before Diana had even finished outlining the plan. His city-limit dumps happen every Friday evening; the empty soup barrels he disposes of are large enough to fit one of them inside, each. Ernesto will distract the guard while Amy and Diana sneak out to the loading dock, where the empty soup barrels will be loaded in the back of the truck. All they’ll have to do is climb inside. Ernesto will close the back door, and then - 

Freedom. 

“Miss Santiago!” A voice calls behind her. Amy pauses mid-step, wobbling unsteadily on the walking boot as she turns back to find Breslin striding toward her quickly. “It’s wonderful to see you up and walking again!” 

“Yeah,” Amy nods, “the crutches were really starting to get on my nerves.”

Breslin stops a foot before her and lifts her hand to trace the thin scar above Amy’s left eye with her fingertips. “Sorry we couldn’t save this from scarring,” she says, and for a moment Amy really believes her. “Though I guess it could have been worse - you _could_ have died on impact.” 

Amy forces herself to laugh through her clenched teeth. 

“Listen, I actually had another reason for coming to find you,” Breslin says. She steps forward and takes Amy’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I want you to come by my office after dinner tonight. You’ve accomplished a lot of really good things around here in the last six weeks - you’ve made a _home_ here - and I think it’s time that I recognize that, formally.” 

Amy’s smile remains undisturbed despite her heart stuttering uncomfortably against her ribs. Ernesto doesn’t leave until after dinner. “Okay,” she hears herself say. “I’ll come by right after dinner.” 

“I look forward to seeing you then.” Breslin squeezes Amy’s shoulder one last time before turning on her heel and marching off in the opposite direction, leaving Amy alone, wilting in the middle of the hallway. 

She finds Ernesto and Diana in the cafeteria, shunted off to one side, speaking in hushed tones over their lunches. “We have a problem.” Amy mutters as she drops into the seat beside Diana. 

Ernesto, whose face had lit up upon spotting Amy walking without assistance from crutches, immediately leans forward in his seat. “What?” 

“Breslin wants to see me in her office right after dinner. She’s gonna figure it out if I don’t show up.” 

Diana blinks rapidly, her hands clenched into fists atop the table, but Ernesto leans forward and covers one with his own hand. “Okay, it’s okay, we can just do it next week -” 

“ _Are you insane?_ ” Amy snarls. 

“Absolutely not!” Diana cries at the same time.

“I’m not spending another second longer than absolutely necessary in this prison.” Amy mutters. 

“I haven’t seen my sisters in _months_ ,” Diana whispers. “I can’t wait another minute, Ernesto, we _have_ to go, _tonight_ -” 

“Okay, okay, we’ll go tonight - sorry, that was a stupid suggestion -” 

“It has to be before dinner,” Amy interrupts. “In fact, the earlier, the better. Breslin sticks to a schedule - she doesn’t leave her office after lunch until five, an hour before dinner. If we can get out of here with enough time, we could have hours to get a head-start.” 

Ernesto blinks rapidly; Amy can see the gears turning in his head. “Okay, okay, there’s a side exit in the kitchen that leads to this stairwell, which takes you down to the loading dock. There’s always this break in the security guards that stand at the door,” he says. “Mark leaves at three, and the next guy is always fifteen minutes late. It’s a tight window, but if you guys can get to the kitchen without anyone noticing at three o’clock, I think we can make it.” 

“Three o’clock,” Amy repeats. Ernesto nods, and Amy pretends not to notice the way his thumb steadily, absently caresses Diana’s knuckles. “We’ll be there.” 

The following three hours pass by at such a painfully slow pace that Amy finds herself fantasizing about leaping head-first out the window on at least six different occasions. It’s hard to focus on gathering the laundry when her mind keeps wandering to the precinct - wondering if they’ve moved her bed to storage again, wondering if Jake has regained enough strength to get out of bed and walk, wondering if Charles delivered her last message to Jake.

It hadn’t occurred to her until her third week here that Charles probably thinks she’s dead. There’s a chance he saw whatever security guard it was that grabbed her, but she figured he would have carried that information back to the precinct at the others would have made an attempt at rescuing her by now. Really, the only feasible conclusion to draw is that she’d spoken her last words sprawled out there in the alley; and even though she wants more than anything to get back to her team, she can’t help but idly wonder what the aftermath was like when everyone realized she wasn’t coming back. 

She hates herself for wondering - but there are only so many things to think about while staring at the sterile white walls of the hospital laundry room. 

Eventually the clock ticks forward to 2:55 PM, and Amy finds herself creeping down the hallway toward the cafeteria, Diana at her back. She pauses at the corner and crouches, motioning for Diana to mirror her, before cautiously peeking her head around the corner. 

Mark, the broad-shouldered security guard who always works the morning shift, is leaning back against the wall beside the sole entrance to the cafeteria. She can hear the muffled sounds of pots and pans knocking together somewhere in the kitchen, keeping time with the symphony of dinner half-way through preparation. Amy smothers her grin into her wrist - if all goes according to plan, this dinner will never see the light of day. 

Mark kicks off the wall at 2:58 and strolls away, hands in his pockets, whistling cheerfully to himself. Amy waits until his whistle has faded before darting forward, Diana hot on her heels. 

Ernesto is poised in the doorway to the kitchen, bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously. Relief floods his face the moment Amy and Diana dart inside. “C’mon, hurry, hurry,” he says, ushering them toward the side entrance. The door groans on its’ hinges as it gives way to the staircase, and Amy snatches the first loose object she sees - a broken, splintered pipe on the ground. It’s three feet long, broken and jagged on one end, and thick enough that it won’t dent if she swings it against something solid. Ernesto leads the charge down the staircase, occasionally glancing back to ensure that Amy and Diana are still there.

Despite her mental preparation, they meet no creatures between the third and first floors. Ernesto shoulders the back door open and Amy blinks at the sunlight suddenly assaulting her vision - it’s been _six weeks_ since she’s felt fresh air in her lungs - but Ernesto’s suddenly shoving her forward and she nearly stumbles across the loading dock. There’s about a foot of space between the ledge and the back of the moving truck, Amy notes as she hurries toward it. She tries to land most of her weight on her right leg but still grunts at the dull wave of pain that shoots up her left shin. Diana makes the leap, and then Ernesto, who immediately swings over to the side of the back door. “Find something to grab onto,” he calls as he leaps out of the truck, dragging the rolling door closed behind himself. 

They’re plunged into semi-darkness and Amy has to feel out the sides of the wall before she finds a wooden support beam and wraps her arms around it. The engine roars to life beneath her feet, and then the car lurches forward, and then - 

And then it’s taking every ounce of balance and grace that she possesses to keep herself upright against the violent movement of the truck. She hears Diana shout something, but it’s lost beneath the growling engine and her own thundering heartbeat. Pain is radiating up her left leg but she ignores it, focusing on the coarse wood beneath her skin, on the sting of diesel gas that comes with each inhale. 

The van lurches again and Amy nearly loses her grip on the beam, the pipe slipping from her grasp with a jarring clatter, but she manages to cling to the beam, screwing her eyes shut against the panic soaring through her system, trying to focus on what it all means. Ernesto said that the van was kept in a gated area - that most recent lurch must have been him mowing down the chainlink. 

Which means that they have officially made it off of hospital grounds. 

The ride seems to smooth out a bit after that, though Amy refuses to loosen her stranglehold on her supporting beam. The backdoor jumps with each bump in the road, throwing the whole bed of the truck into a kind of disorienting strobe lighting. She catches flashes of Diana’s face, terrified, but exhilarated. 

It’s the most like Rosa Amy has seen her be thus far.

That’s the last thought she has before the van lurches more violently than ever, and then the world is spinning and her supporting beam is on the ceiling and she’s falling, landing on her recently healed shoulder, her head bouncing off of the floor, the world going dark. 

“Amy?” A voice, far away but desperate, breaks through the haze. “Amy, _please, wake up_!” 

She blinks, and Diana’s face appears in her blurry vision. Blood is trickling slowly down the side of Diana’s head but she appears not to notice it - she’s looking down at Amy, her face twisted in heart-stopping terror. “Wha’ happened?” Amy slurs. 

“I think Ernesto crashed - Amy, please, the _zacks_ -!” 

The familiar hissing moan comes crashing into clarity then, and Amy jerks upward, screwing her eyes shut against the responding throb in her head and left shoulder. The van is on its’ side and the rolling back door has jammed open several inches - just enough room for several rotted arms and hands to fit inside, swinging and grabbing blindly. It’s hard to tell since her head’s still spinning, but Amy’s pretty sure they’re surrounded on all sides. 

“Shit, _shit_ ,” she curses, pressing the heel of her hand against her temple. Her hand comes away painted red. “The pipe, _find the pipe_ -” 

Diana whips away, casting around quickly. The crash jarred a few supporting beams loose; a deafening metallic clatter announces Diana’s rush forward, toward the beams. 

“There,” Amy chokes. “Gimme the pipe, _hurry_.” Diana snatches it up and thrusts it into Amy’s hands. “Help me up,” Amy grunts, shifting the pipe to her left hand and reaching up with her right.

Diana hauls her to her feet and Amy sways for a moment, eyes closed against the vertigo, before she shakes her head and squares her shoulders. Her left shoulder is positively screaming, so she shifts the pipe back to her right hand and tucks her left elbow into her side. “Stay back,” Amy warns as she lumbers toward the door. 

She can see a sliver of one face through the space in the door. She inhales slowly; through the stench of rot and decay, she can smell clean, fresh air. 

She holds it in her lungs as she thrusts the jagged end of the pipe through the creature’s eye. Another one appears in the space the first one vacates, so Amy repeats the movement, and then again with the third one, and the fourth, and the fifth. Over and over again, she jams the pipe through the slot of space, until the last one falls and silence descends on their van. Amy pants, tightening her grip around the pipe despite the fact that her right arm aches with the repetitive movements. 

“Ernesto,” Diana whispers into the billowing silence. 

Amy starts, suddenly remembering their third partner, probably trapped in the cab of the van. “Help me get this door unjammed!” She calls, desperately yanking on the door with her right arm. Diana hurries to her side and they throw their combined body weight into it. The door inches over slowly, grinding against the track so loudly it’s almost deafening. A hissing moan has started some distance away from wherever they are, approaching slowly but steadily, and Amy’s heart lurches uncomfortably. 

Finally, they get the door open wide enough that they can slip out. Two creatures are meandering toward them, undead and unseeing eyes trained on Diana and Amy as they stumble out of the back of the van. Diana freezes, her grip around Amy’s wrist tight as a vice. 

“Get Ernesto,” Amy says, voice low and rough. “I’ll hold these guys off, just - go get him out.”

Diana darts away as Amy starts toward the creatures, spinning the pipe in her hand down low. The first one goes down with one hit, crumpling in a heap at Amy’s feet. The second one proves to be a bit more difficult; Amy ends up having to drive the pipe through the thing’s forehead before it finally gives up and collapses, unmoving, on the sidewalk. 

Amy hunches over, panting, trying to ignore the burn of sweat in the gash on her temple. 

“Amy!” Diana’s voice, thin and crackling, brings her back. Amy whips around and spots Diana a few feet in front of the van, next to Ernesto, who is doubled over and clutching his head. 

“What’s wrong?” Amy calls as she hurries toward them. 

“He’s really, really dizzy, he threw up - I think he has a concussion,” Diana says, sounding as though she’s just moments away from bursting into tears. “We have to get him help, Amy, we have to _do_ something -” 

“We’re two blocks from the precinct,” Amy interrupts. “All we have to do is get him to the Nine-Nine - we have a nurse there, she’ll be able to help him. But we _have_ to go. We can’t stay here. Security could be here any second, we have to start moving.” 

They pull Ernesto to a slumped standing position, his arms slung around each of their necks, feet essentially dragging along the ground as they carried him between them. Amy points out an alley a few yards away that they duck into, and Ernesto moans quietly upon entering the shadows. “M’sorry,” he mumbles, “m’so sorry…” 

“It’s okay, sh, everything’s gonna be okay, don’t worry,” Diana whispers, sounding almost as winded as Amy feels. 

“Lost control,” he slurs. “Wen’too fast, an’ I los’control,” 

“It’s okay,” Diana repeats. 

Amy thinks she almost means it.

It’s slow torture, the rest of their journey. What should have been a ten minute walk ends up lasting nearly an hour - being weaponless means waiting behind corners until the undead move out of earshot rather than fighting their way through - but finally, _blessedly_ , the hidden entrance to their secure parking garage is in sight. 

Diana props Ernesto up on the wall beside the door as Amy lifts the flap covering the keypad on the other side of the door. Her fingers fly over the keys on instinct - _5463_ \- and she beams at the sound of the door rattling upwards. Diana and Ernesto shuffle inside as Amy hits the door close switch, heart pounding until the door sinks all the way to the ground. 

“Don’t move.” A voice calls sharply behind her. Amy freezes, listening to the rapid footsteps descending the wooden staircase separating the parking garage from the rest of the precinct. “Hands where I can see ‘em.” 

“Rosa,” Amy chokes. The footsteps falter. Amy turns slowly, right hand raised to her shoulder, blinking rapidly, jaw tight. Rosa’s at the base of the staircase, Glock trained on Amy’s heart, eyes impossibly wide with disbelief. “It’s me.” 

Rosa blinks, panting, refusing to tear her gaze away from Amy. Distantly, Amy wonders how bad it looks - she knows she’s lost weight in the last six weeks, and can only imagine the extent of her visible injuries after the crash. “That’s impossible,” Rosa whispers, her grip tightening around the butt of her gun. “You, you - you _died_ -” 

“No,” Amy says, “someone pulled me out right after Charles got away. I’ve been trapped in Brooklyn Methodist for the last six weeks but I - I just escaped. And I…brought friends.” 

Rosa’s gaze darts to her left, where Ernesto is slumped against the side of one car, and then to Diana, who looks as though she’s staring at a ghost.

It’s the sight of her sister that jolts Rosa. The gun slips from her grasp and clatters to the floor as Rosa rushes to Diana, flinging her arms around her neck, muffling her sudden sobs into her hair. Amy rocks backwards on her heels, fighting down the urge to take off running up the stairs. Ernesto slips further down a few inches, and Amy lurches toward him. 

“Stay with me, Ernesto,” Amy calls softly, ducking beneath his outstretched left arm to pull him back upright. 

“What the hell happened?” Rosa demands, her commanding voice suddenly inches from Amy’s left ear. 

“We had to steal a van to escape - Ernesto was driving and he lost control,” Diana explains while Amy grits her teeth. “He hit his head really hard in the crash and threw up -” 

“He needs Karen,” Amy pants. “ _Now_.” 

Rosa nods stiffly and takes off toward the staircase, leaving Diana and Amy to ease Ernesto down to the floor. He moans quietly when they gently lay his head on the cool concrete; his eyes roll behind his closed eyelids. “It’s gonna be okay, Ernesto,” Diana whispers, smoothing her fingers across his stubbled cheek. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

A fairly large clatter of footsteps starts up at the top of the stairs, and when Amy cranes around, she spots Rosa, Karen, and Captain Holt rushing toward them. Amy leans back instinctively and Karen immediately takes the place she’d vacated. 

A hand lands on Amy’s left shoulder and she cries out as she shrinks away, the jolt of pain sending a shockwave through her system. “Amy,” Holt’s voice is strained, “My God, I’m so sorry, are you alright -?” 

“Captain,” she gasps. He takes her outstretched right hand and pulls her up and into a hug that is far too gentle and warm; she can feel his hesitation, his fear of aggravating her injuries further, and it makes her want to cry in frustration. “C-Captain, please - Jake, is he - is he -”

Holt pulls away, an unreadable expression on his face. “Jake’s okay,” he says, and the next words out of his mouth are lost because Amy’s knees buckle and she practically collapses against her Captain, relief so profound she’s nearly blinded by it. Holt’s grip changes, and then Rosa is suddenly there, and together they guide her to the chairs stacked up at the base of the staircase. 

“Amy.” Holt’s voice cuts through the dizziness; she blinks, and his face comes into focus. He’s knelt down at her feet, looking up at her steadily, eyes reflecting a fraction of the panic that seems to be ruling this room. “Can you hear me? Squeeze Rosa’s hand if you can hear me.” 

Amy clenches both of her fists, just to be sure. 

“Listen to me very carefully. You’re safe now. You’re home. It’s okay.” 

Amy nods, trying to slow her breathing and to focus on Rosa’s fingers, warm and secure, in her hand. “I need - I need to see Jake,” she finally forces out. 

Rosa and Holt exchange a look. “Amy…” 

“Everyone upstairs has spent the last six weeks thinking that you died in that alley. Including Jake.” Rosa says bluntly. Amy’s ready for it, but it still feels like a swift punch to the gut. “I happened to be walking by upstairs when I heard that garage door open and I darted in here by myself. No one - no one outside of this room knows you’re even alive, let alone _here_.” 

“What Rosa is trying to say is that - we’ll go get him. We’ll go right now. But…but it may take a minute. We’re going to tell him and give him a minute to prepare.” 

“In other words, don’t leave this garage.” 

Amy nods, and nods, and keeps nodding until Rosa pulls her fingers free and disappears back up the stairs with Holt. She watches Karen tend to Ernesto without really seeing anything, and ignores Diana’s concerned gaze from Ernesto’s other side. Her heart is thudding somewhere in her throat and no matter how many times she tries her breathing exercises she just can’t get it to calm down.

Six weeks is a considerably long amount of time to go without seeing someone (especially when you’ve seen that person almost every single day for years leading up to that) but, really, she hasn’t _seen_ Jake in much longer. He spent nearly two months on bedrest, pneumonia ravaging his system and leaving him just enough energy to briefly open his eyes upon feeling her fingers running through his hair. She hasn’t had a real conversation with him in nearly three months. 

She has no idea what to expect now. She’d seen him briefly before leaving the precinct on that fateful day six weeks ago; he was skeletal, pale as the sheets on which he lay, skin damp and freezing and feverish. She could hardly stand to look at him back then - looking too long made her break down crying, guaranteed - so she only stayed for the amount of time it took to kneel beside his bed, pull her surgical mask down, and kiss his forehead. 

He hadn’t even opened his eyes. 

But that’s not the case anymore. He’s awake, alive and well, probably coming to terms with the exact same concepts about her right that very - 

The door at the top of the staircase bangs open and Amy jumps, reaching to grab the edges of her seat. Loud footsteps thunder down the stairs, drowning out the voices calling out from the doorway upstairs, and then a person is spilling out onto the garage floor, eyes as wild as his unkempt hair. 

Jake’s gaze sweeps across the room - pausing for literal milliseconds on his mother and Diana - before he finally, finally spots Amy. 

There’s a brief moment - hardly the length of space between heartbeats - in which all they can do is stare. Jake gasps sharply, forehead puckered and eyes glazed with tears. She forgets about her stinging head, her aching shoulder, her throbbing ankle; her entire universe has narrowed down to the man three feet away from her, whose throat is working fruitlessly to swallow a lump like the one that has just risen in her own throat. 

“ _Amy_ ,” he finally chokes.

The spell is broken immediately and Amy launches herself out of her chair. Jake rushes forward at the same time and then he’s swept her up, pulling her up to her tiptoes (on her right foot - her left has left the ground all together, the walking boot stopping her from bending her ankle) and burying his face in her good shoulder. They’re both trembling, scrambling to get closer, and the violent sobs racking both of their bodies have no clear origin. Jake’s touching every inch of her he can reach, gentle pulls and grips on her hips and waist and shoulder and hair. Amy knots her fingers in his hair and holds on as tightly as she can. 

It takes several moments, but eventually Amy regains enough clarity to realize that Jake is mumbling something into her shoulder. She eases him backwards, freeing his lips, and when he pulls away he looks down at her like she’s the most precious jewel in the entire known universe. “Amy,” he says, softly, reverently, disbelievingly. “ _Amy_.” 

She kisses him then, and his strangled moan is muffled against her lips. His hands are warm and encompassing and a bit possessive where they sweep up her back and stop at her shoulder blades, keeping her pressed tightly against him. She slips her left arm beneath his right to alleviate the burning ache in her shoulder, clenching her fist into the excess material of his grey t-shirt. Her right hand threads up into his hair again, and he shivers as her nails gently scrape against his scalp. 

They break away a minute later but Jake stays close, his forehead pressing insistently against hers, thumb gently smoothing over her chin, the end of his nose barely brushing against hers. His breath comes in warm puffs across her chin, and when the thumb on her chin brushes up over her cheek to wipe her tears, she feels her heart knit itself back together in her chest. 

“Amy,” he whispers again before tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

This hug is steadier than before, more healing, and slowly Amy’s senses begin expanding beyond Jake’s presence. Her eyes are still screwed shut but she can hear Diana whispering, or maybe crying, somewhere behind her. Rosa and Holt are continuously shifting their weight somewhere beyond Jake; Holt even clears his throat at some point, though it’s too quiet to be done out of discomfort. Karen is whispering something to Ernesto but Amy can tell by the uneven quality and tripping rhythm that Jake’s mother is probably crying, too. 

“Jake,” Holt says tentatively. Jake stiffens, arms tightening around Amy. “Son, she - she needs medical attention.” 

Jake stubbornly buries his face further into Amy’s shoulder, and Amy’s briefly reminded of a petulant four-year-old refusing to hand over his safety blanket. She feels Rosa’s hand gripping Jake’s shoulder, pulling him back, away from Amy. 

“Let _go_ ,” he snarls. 

“She’s on the verge of passing out, idiot, so unless you wanna make out with her while she’s unconscious, I suggest _you_ let go of _her_.” 

“It’s okay,” Amy whispers into his neck. The words are strangled, but sincere. “It’s okay, Jake. I’m not going anywhere.” 

He shudders and runs a hand over the back of her head, lingering at her neck, fingers curling around her hair in a move that is both soothing and jolting all at once. 

“I’ll go get Terry,” she hears Holt say uncertainly. 

Amy’s not sure, exactly, which one of them starts it - all she knows is that Jake is swaying and she’s moving along with him, concentrating on the way he steadily strokes his thumb up her spine while his hand presses against the small of her back. “Never letting go,” Jake swears in a whisper only she can hear. “Never again.”

The next ten minutes come to her in pieces. She knows Terry is there, because the world suddenly shifts violently and then she’s several feet off the ground, leaning heavily into a thickly-muscled chest, breathing in the faintest scent of vanilla. Charles must be there, too, because she’s in the second floor hallway beneath that one fluorescent light that never stops flickering and someone is crying her name, loudly, brokenly, behind the wall of muscle that is Terry. It’s unsettlingly disorienting, but the panic never comes, because through it all her right hand remains in Jake’s steadfast grip. 

She lands on her right side against something soft and warm and she can’t quite open her eyes but it doesn’t matter - Jake’s presence is suddenly solid and warm at her front, arm draped lightly over her middle, encouraging her to nuzzle into his chest. 

The world slips away moments later. 

Hours have passed by the time she comes back to reality again. Sleep sits thickly on her eyes, clinging heavily to her bones, making the task of reaching up to wipe at her eyes blearily more of a chore than a reflex. Jake shifts backwards upon feeling her feeble movements, chest tilting away from her, and when she finally manages to open her eyes, the first thing she sees is his face. It’s soft and tender and gentle and everything she’s spent the last six weeks fighting to get back to; her heart skips a beat, and she gasps. 

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, arm flexing around her waist. She realizes belatedly that it’s done in effort to keep her from rolling off the bed. “You okay?” 

She nods slowly, not yet trusting her voice. 

“Not in any pain?” 

Truthfully, she is, but at this point she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t leave her current position for anything less than a missing limb. So she lies, shaking her head against the pillow.

She can tell by the downward curve of his mouth that he doesn’t believe her, but maybe he’s as reluctant as she is to leave - he just nods and shifts a little closer. “I missed you.” Amy whispers. 

His breath catches in his throat before he clenches his jaw almost violently. In the low light of the room - his and Charles’ room, she realizes belatedly - she can see a line of muscle jumping in his jaw. For one second she fights the urge to brush her fingertips against it, before remembering her shoulder and settling for studying the lines between his brows instead. 

“I - God,” he chokes. There’s a haunted quality to his fractured gaze. “I thought - I really, I…I don’t even know how to say it,” he closes his eyes and shakes his head in a minute movement, like he’s trying to clear his mind. “I was trying so hard to be strong,” he whispers, eyes still firmly closed. “‘Cause I…I knew you wanted me to be. And I…I couldn’t let it…let that…what happened, y’know…be in vain. But I was losing my mind, Ames, I was absolutely losing my mind, I missed you so goddamn much.” 

Tears are rolling down her face, over the bridge of her nose, dripping into her hairline, but neither one of them acknowledge it. “I missed you, too,” she whispers. 

“Never do something like that again. Please, just…I never want you to risk your life like that again. I can’t…I can’t _handle_ that again, Amy, I barely made it through the first time. Promise me, please, promise me you’ll never risk your life like that again -” 

“I - I can’t promise that,” she interrupts softly. A look of anguish flashes across his face, so she grits her teeth and reaches up to touch his face with her left hand. “Jake, I’m…I’ll do whatever it takes to save you. Always, no matter what. And don’t try to convince me not to because I know for a fact that you would do the same thing for me.”

Whatever his half-formed argument was, it evaporates on his tongue in an instant. He seems to wilt into the bed, chewing his lower lip as he stares at her across their shared pillow. “Damn it.” He finally mutters. 

She lowers her hand, her smug triumph quickly giving way to a wince at the sharp pain in her shoulder. Jake shifts closer, and when her eyes flutter open, his gaze is full of tender concern. “Are you _sure_ you’re not in any pain?” He asks. 

“‘Course I’m in pain, but if you think either one of us is about to get out of this bed, you’re completely insane.” 

He makes a soft, reproachful noise, but doesn’t move, so Amy considers it a win. 

“What happened to Diana and Ernesto?” She asks after a few moments of comfortable silence. 

“Last I heard, Diana is with Rosa and Stephanie and Stephanie’s kids, and Ernesto is upstairs with my mom. She’s keeping an eye on him, but when she stuck her head in here earlier, she said he was doing better.” Unfiltered affection has softened the lines of his face, seemingly growing with each word he speaks. 

“What?” She asks softly. 

“It’s just - it’s so _you_ to ask about other people in situations like this,” he shrugs. She smiles, and he grins back. “I’m so glad you’re home,” he murmurs. 

Her heart drops. She guesses her facial expression must fall too, because Jake’s smile is suddenly gone, replaced with intense concern. “I - oh, God -” 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“Jake - we were being held captive in that hospital. There was this crazy doctor and these insane security guards and - they’re gonna know we’re here, Jake, they’re gonna come looking for us -” 

“Hey, hey, sh,” his hand is warm against the side of her face, his thumb smoothing over her furrowed brow, his fingers gently carding through the hair behind her ear. “They can look all they want. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna let any of them touch you again. You’re safe, Ames. I promise you, you’re safe.”

“But -” 

He cuts her off with a kiss that is somehow both soft and demanding. In an instant, her anxiety is quelled; she hums against him, and he smiles into the kiss. 

“We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” he breathes when he reluctantly pulls away. 

It won’t be enough in the cold light of day, she already knows this, but for now - here, in this moment, with his warmth surrounding her and the scent of him so intoxicatingly close - it holds the fear and anxiety at bay. “Tomorrow,” she mumbles, burrowing into him and sighing when he hugs her closer. 

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “But ‘til then, sleep.” 

She’s asleep within minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> to be continued!!


End file.
